


long is the road that leads me home

by murgamurg



Series: this road is made for two [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family Issues, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Mechanic McCree, Papa Reyes, Road Trips, Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers, modern-ish AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8425894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: You can meet the strangest people on the road. Sometimes, the best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok take 2 because there didn't seem to be a whole lot of response the first time around. I've done some editing and rehashing of things in my weeks away from home so this should be better i guess. sometimes i jump the gun on posting things because i get too excited. 
> 
> anyway. written on a strict diet of crooning boogie rock, distorted guitars, and rolling basslines. based on my own experience with road trips and long drives through the southwest part of the I-10 corridor. i also have a playlist if anyone is interested, lol. 
> 
> enjoy!

McCree shifts gears and the syncopating purr of his motorcycle travels straight to his pumping heart. There’s nothing like the freedom he gets driving like this: flying down the highway, speedometer in the red, grinning like a fool. He doesn’t right care about the dangers of speeding without a helmet, not on such a beautiful day.

It’s mid October, and the New Mexico desert is still nearing ninety, but there’s a cool wind carding through his hair that tells of a mild winter. He looks forward to it almost as much as the warm sunshine that permeates his skin and warms his bones. The desert gleams around him, golden in the midday sun, speckled with cactus and scrub brush.

Flat asphalt stretches long and open in front of him. He’s thankful that the traffic has been sparse; it’s kinda hard to open up like this when some old fogey soaks up the entirety of the single lane because he’s busy obeying the law. There ain’t no lawmen out here to worry about, but he’s passed up one or two slowpokes already today despite that fact.

A black speck rumbles on a few miles ahead of him, just cresting the hazy horizon. It sticks in his eye and grows ever closer.

After several minutes (and maybe shifting up another gear) he can see that it’s an old school cruiser. Black as night, perfectly glossy and clean. The chrome accents sparkle with crisp lines and curved edges. The engine noise is a low purring heaven of pistons and exhaust.

McCree’s eyes flick over to the the driver’s rearview; he wants to sneak a peek at who owns such a fine piece of work. From the California plates he determines it’s probably some rich tech nerd with nothing better to do than spend money on antiques.

He balks instead. Has to tighten his grip on the five hundred pounds of metal between his legs, lest he lose control.  

The guy is gorgeous. Straight up, drop dead gorgeous. Dark hair tied up to show off those high cheekbones, nice little goatee, that fine muscled arm leaning out of the driver’s side window. A city boy, clean cut with a mighty frown and a damn nice car.

Just his type. He can’t resist.

McCree cranes his head around to check across the double yellow lines -- no traffic to the horizon, for now. He shifts down to keep pace and revs up next to the car, riding steady in the oncoming lane. The loud staccato of the bike’s engine announces his presence, the driver’s eyes flick over to him. Full of disdain behind sharp, narrow sunglasses.

He tips down his aviators, flashing his best bedroom eyes. “Howdy there fella!” He yowls over the wind, giving an exaggerated up-down with his eyes. Hazards a wink.

The guy only glares back, scowl cutting deep into his chin, thin lips curled in disgust. Not a touch of blush on his face. _Damn_.

Ah well.

McCree throws his head back in a laugh before kicking his bike up a gear. He’s gotta pass mister gorgeous before he gets his head taken off by the oncoming semi.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo pulls of the road into a dirt lot. The tires kick up a cloud of dust as they drop off the pavement, puffy and wide in the hot, dry air.

The diner is nothing more than a trailer in the middle of nowhere, but it has what he needs. He can refill his empty tank at the gas pumps outside, and perhaps grab a cup of coffee. Hanzo’s been driving for almost eight hours, and eight hours in the hot desert sun has him exhausted. He needs to prepare for the next leg of his journey.

Italian leather boots crunch into the gravel as he steps out of the car and stretches the cramped muscles in his legs and lower back. His jacket, relegated to the back seat until now, gets slung over his shoulders before moving to the pump. The soft leather protects him from the cool evening wind.

Some distant point to the west calls to the blood red sun. _Nothing_ stretches around him, flat and clear to the horizon.

It is so very different from home.

When the car is full he locks it up and crunches his way up to the silver, tube-shaped restaurant _._ Weariness of travel rests heavy in his bones; the walk to the door feels more like a slog through thick mud.

There’s a motorcycle parked next to the door. Hanzo’s eyes fall upon it.

He stops flat, toe touching the first stair, his hand just grasping the railing. The chrome of the exhaust pipe glints in the waning light -- like a grin, from some wide-mouthed buffoon.

It’s _the_ motorcycle, of course. The crimson red tank is unmistakeable; the gold pinstriping paired with that rich, dark, well worn leather. A very tasteful bike for the man who rides it, he thinks.

_That man._ Hanzo winces at the memory of the tawny skin, faded muscle tank, and weathered cowboy boots. So very American, too gregarious for his own good. Utterly ridiculous with his over the top _flirting_.

He really needs some coffee. A long suffering sigh leaks from his throat.

Inside, the man chomps down at his food seated in a booth to the right of the entrance. Hanzo does not look at him directly, but the exercise is futile. The diner is mostly empty save for _The American_ and a light smatter of other, well… Americans, probably. A few waitresses rotate down the lengthy aisle slow and steady, like the orbit of planets.  

When he spots Hanzo, the man perks right up.

“Howdy there pal!” He drawls, and Hanzo gives in to temptation. He glances in the man’s direction, despite himself.

The grin on the man’s face is just. _Ridiculous._

A traitorous hand peeks out of Hanzo’s jacket in a small, acknowledging wave.

The man’s left hand -- prosthetic to the elbow -- waves him over in response. His right, flesh, shoves more of what Hanzo knows as a _waffle_ into his gaping mouth.

Hanzo grumbles over his own shoulder. “Why not,” he mutters under his breath, and slides into the booth.

“Fancy seein’ you round these parts good-lookin’,” the man winks and swallows, laying it on strong. “Glad you’re of a mind to keep a lowly fella like me company.”

Hanzo just rolls his eyes, raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so,” he quips, looking pointedly at the hat atop the man’s head. “I was under the impression that _fellas_ such as yourself preferred the company of cattle.”

The man stares at Hanzo for a moment. A bark of laughter tears itself from his throat.

“Well! ain't you just a piece o’ work,” he chortles, and leans forward across the table. The grin that splits the man’s face is just short of glee. Not at all the reaction Hanzo was expecting.

“The name’s McCree, Jesse McCree,” the man introduces himself and proffers a hand.

“Hanzo,” is all Hanzo replies and grasps his hand to shake. The angle of the sun highlights the strands of red peppered through McCree’s dark beard. The rich brown of his eyes, like the leather on his bike.

“Nice to meetcha, Hanzo.” The way it rolls off McCree’s tongue is pleasant. His grip is firm, before their hands release.

The cowboy catches one of the waitresses as she bustles by with a wave of his hand, index finger extended.

“Hey there sweetheart, y’mind gettin this man somethin’?” He turns to Hanzo. “Whattaya want, pardner?”

“Just coffee, please.”

“Two coffees then,” McCree adds, holding up two fingers, and the waitress nods, taking his empty plate.

Moments later, she slides the steaming mugs of coffee across the table.  McCree slurps at it like the mug isn’t lava incarnate.

“So. Where ya headed?” He asks.

Hanzo frowns.

“It is... none of your business,” He takes a small _sup_ from his mug. Still too hot.

The cowboy chuckles, deep and rolling. “True enough, darlin’. Jus’ tryna make some friendly conversation, y’know? That's a mighty fine vehicle for some nondescript travellin.”

Hanzo takes a deep dreg, now. The coffee is barely passable, and he aches for the espresso maker that rests on the counter of his kitchen.

“Hm,” He replies. He’s not sure how to navigate this conversation, still wary of this curious stranger.

“What is it anyway?” McCree cranes his head towards the window with curiosity. “A ‘66? ‘67?”

A small, fond smirk crawls across Hanzo’s face. He sets the cup down, and stares into the tar-like liquid. Thin fingers tap on the white ceramic handle.

“It is a ‘67.” He says finally, eyes flicking up to McCree’s. “You have a good eye.”

The man smirks right back, thumbing up the brim of his hat. “Do I? Boy. That thing’s damn near a hundred years old. How’s a fella like you come by a car like that?”

“It was a family heirloom.” He is purposefully cryptic.

McCree takes no notice. “Y’mind if I take a look under the hood?”

Hanzo fails to suppress a grimace. He opens his mouth to express his hesitation, but McCree beats him to the punch.

“I ain’t no hobbyist now,” the cowboy’s face flattens into something serious, or as serious as a fool in a cowboy hat can appear. “I built that bike out there. Got my own shop, too. I’d know my way around a pretty thing like her, y’know?” His eyebrows waggle suggestively, punctuating the innuendo.

Hanzo finds this man endearing despite his remaining qualms. He cannot fight the smile.

“Very well,” he agrees.

They chat for a while longer. McCree tells him small things about New Mexico, about the diner, about the waitresses even -- nothing lewd, to Hanzo’s mild surprise. When the coffee’s done the man insists on paying. Hanzo trails behind him on their way out to the car, hands in his pockets.

McCree whistles when he opens the hood.

Watching the cowboy root around in his engine gives Hanzo an appreciative view of the man’s body. McCree is built solid; not quite cut from stone given the slight curve to his belly, but square and sturdy nonetheless. The strength he carries in his shoulders is obvious. Hanzo’s eyes wander the corded muscle in his back -- as well as part of his ass, due to the low-slung jeans and ostentatious belt buckle.

He wonders if it’s on purpose.

It’s probably on purpose.

The man slams the hood shut. “Phew! She’s a beaut, she is.”

A broad hand claps down on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Thanks for lettin’ me inta her inner sanctum,” he says, with more wiggling of his brows. “Whaddaya say we uh, keep in touch. Y’know, in case ya need someone with the know how to fix her up.”

Ah. He wants a phone number.

“I do not think so,” Hanzo replies, smirk cutting sharp into his cheek.

“Aw hell darlin. Ice cold you are, shuttin’ a man down like that.” McCree thumbs at his nose. “Alrighty then, I’ll leave ya alone.”

Thumb and forefinger touch the brim of his hat, and he walks backwards towards the diner, and his bike. “See ya around sweetheart, thanks for the comp’ny.”

“And thank you for the coffee,” he says. He barely resists the urge to bow, even after spending many years in the States. He settles for a gracious nod of his head.

McCree tosses him a large, eager grin, even in the face of defeat.

 

* * *

 

Twenty miles down the road his engine starts to splutter.

Hanzo taps on the gas gauge. The orange indicator hovers over a quarter tank, trembles, and then drops off the scale. Empty, even though he just filled the tank up.

The engine whines, coughs as he manages to steer the last vestiges of momentum onto the highway’s shoulder. Curses spill from his mouth in stunted Japanese. He steps out of the car when it comes to a stop.

Acrid, sweet air assaults his nose, thick with the perfume of gasoline. In the moonlight he spots a faint trail of soaked earth and asphalt that leads from the road and through the dirt, right up to his vehicle.

_I aint no hobbyist_ , the man said. Hanzo frowns, grits his teeth, curses again. No hobbyist, indeed.

Hanzo takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, and whips out his phone. Through spotty cell service he determines the location of a repair shop a few miles behind him. He locks up the car, lingering on the image of Storm Bow resting comfortably on the floor of the back seat, just out of sight of the average wandering eye. He does not like leaving it here, but he has no other choice but to walk. The bow would make him conspicuous.    

It takes him an hour and a half, perhaps a little longer. His boots and the bottom half of his jeans are coated in a fine layer of red dust as he stands outside on the sidewalk.

Reyes Repairs and Maintenance. _Open 24 Hours_ , the window paint declares, _Free Vehicle Inspection._ A stylized crown flickers atop the “R” in Reyes. Hanzo eyes it with a skeptical brow.

A bell chimes as he opens the door. The man at the counter -- hooded, gruff, dark skinned -- looks up for a moment, then back to the papers in his hand. A crossword, Hanzo notes.

“Can I help you,” The man grumbles. His voice is deep, and not quite what Hanzo expected.  

“Ah, yes.” He clears his throat. Steps forward to the counter, hesitant. “My car broke down a few miles down the highway. I would like to get it towed, perhaps fixed.”

The man grunts, sharply exhales through his nose. He shifts to the door behind him and grasps the handle, slams it open. Hanzo definitely does not startle at the loud _bang_.

“ _Ay, burro!_ ” He bellows into the attached garage. Twanging guitars filter into the lobby from a distant speaker. “ _Ven aca!_ ”

There is no response, but the music stops. The counter man tuts, rolls his eyes. Holds up his index finger, an indication for Hanzo to wait. Underneath the hoodie, Hanzo spies the glitter of a metallic name tag. In plain script it reads: _Gabriel_.  

“One moment,” Gabriel says.

“ _Si, si ya voy jefe, lo tengo..._ ” A rumbling tenor responds, the speaker moving closer to the door. Gabriel glares into the garage with barely restrained irritation.

When the mystery speaker moves into the lobby, Hanzo’s fists clench in his jacket.

_McCree._ Of course it is.   

The cowboy is shirtless, covered in grease and sweat. Body hair litters his chest and arms, the same rich brown of his beard. His metal hand clutches a faded blue cloth, which he uses to wipe some of the grease from his face and chest before pulling it over his head. A shirt, stained from use, the same kind of tank top he was wearing at the diner.

Hanzo’s lip curls in disgust. He can smell the man from where he stands.

Those brown eyes light right up when they fall upon Hanzo, ignorant of the glares from both men. “Howdy there, sweetheart,” He grins in earnest. “Whatcha need?”

Gabriel squints for a moment between McCree and Hanzo, before sliding back over to the cowboy. “His car broke down,” He sneers in explanation. “Help him get it back to the shop.”

McCree thumbs at his nose, sly as ever. “Broke down? That old thing? Must be the heat, you know those old birds melt sometimes.”

“Hm. Yes. The heat, of course.” Hanzo tries to glower a hole into the man’s skull.

The cowboy doesn’t seem to notice. He nods to Gabriel, then Hanzo; throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Welp, lemme go get Mako and we’ll be right with ya. Sit tight darlin’,” he winks. “We’ll get yer baby all back in one piece.”

 

* * *

 

Another hour, and the car is towed back to the shop. The ride in the truck is uncomfortable. Hanzo sits sandwiched between the silent hulk of a man McCree refers to as Mako, and McCree’s grimy, grubby self, all cheeky grins and grating humor.

Hanzo waits in the lobby while they look the car over, thankful for the quiet underneath buzzing fluorescent lights. A hand pinches the bridge of his nose. If he was tired earlier, now exhaustion threatens to take him under in the uncomfortable plastic chair.   

Gabriel opens the door to the garage, stiff boots plodding across the linoleum. Hanzo sits up. The man’s face is unreadable. Tension creeps up Hanzo’s back. He notes the stack of papers in the man’s hands.

“Follow me,” Gabriel beckons without further explanation.

Hanzo trails the man into the garage. It is not exactly clean, but tidier than Hanzo expects -- a well used garaged with modest clientele. Tool chests line the outer wall, and two of the four bays have built-in mechanical lifts. The third holds McCree’s bike. The man himself sits in the adjacent corner, feet propped on a work bench. The fourth bay holds Hanzo’s black cruiser.

Gabriel rounds the front of the car. The papers flop on the ebony hood with a _smack_. One wide, scarred hand rests on either side of the stack.

“Looks like you got some leaky fuel lines,” he says. His voice echoes off the high ceiling. “Where’d you say you got this car?”

Hanzo glances at Jesse in the corner. The grubby cowboy is conspicuously not paying attention to the conversation, wiping something down with a cloth.

“It was a family heirloom,” He supplies, same as he did to McCree earlier.

Gabriel snorts. “A family heirloom, hear that bobo?”

“Suuuure did, jefe,” McCree quips, twang dripping with sarcasm.  

Sweat pricks on the back of Hanzo’s neck. He manages a placid expression when Gabriel’s dark eyes lock on his own.

“You got a family heirloom with a fake registration,” He spits. “Fake plates. Smuggling compartments hidden in all the door panels. You wanna tell me how all that happened, or did you inherit those, too?”

Hanzo finally notices what McCree is cleaning. It’s a gun. A six-shot revolver.

“I have no knowledge of these things,” he lies.

He wonders how long it would take him to smash the back window and draw Storm Bow. A few seconds, probably not fast enough to avoid a bullet.

Gabriel barks a sharp laugh, no mirth in it. “Bull- _shit_!” A hand smacks the hood, but Hanzo isn’t paying attention. The smile drops off Gabriel’s face as he follows Hanzo’s eyes to where McCree sits.

“ _Oye_ , _pendejo_ , quit with the gun. You’re freakin’ him out.”  

“Oh!” McCree startles, his boots hit the floor. Hanzo doesn’t believe for a second that the cowboy was unaware of his actions. “Nah, we ain’t lookin ta hurt ya dollface. Just a lil’ curious is all.” The cowboy flails the gun around in his hand. Hanzo can see that it's unloaded. A fraction of the tension bleeds from his shoulders. “You go through there to El Paso and the Border Patrol is gonna slap ya good. I’m surprised ya got through Arizona well as ya did.”

“The stop was empty in Arizona,” Hanzo mutters. He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Fiddles with a loose thread in his jacket pocket.

The cowboy nods. “Ah. Well, there ya go.”

“Regardless,” Gabriel interrupts, “I can’t let you go with a car like that.”

Hanzo’s foot shifts forward. He will fight if necessary. “You cannot have the car,” he bristles.

Gabriel stalks around the front of the car, prowling like a panther. Refusing to be cowed, Hanzo stands his ground. He is no stranger to posturing, and juts his chin when Gabriel stops just short of bumping his chest.

What he doesn’t expect is the iron grip on his left wrist. He twists out of the first grab, blocks a second as he reels backwards, but the other man has the advantage of surprise. Hanzo fumbles and Gabriel yanks his arm up, slides down the sleeve of his jacket to reveal the head of the dragon, the beginnings of storm clouds and streaks of lightning.  

“How about this, _yakuza_ boy,” Gabe growls into his face, and Hanzo bares his teeth. McCree stiffens on the other side of the room, staring at Hanzo’s arm. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, or where you’re going --”

“I am not doing _anything_ \--”  

“But,” Gabriel cuts him off. “I can get you new papers. Legit papers, that’ll keep the feds off you.”

The man releases his arm. Hanzo all but leaps backwards, putting enough distance between himself and Gabriel to complete a proper counter. He clutches his wrist to his chest, massaging the muscle. It will bruise later.

“And why would you do that,” Hanzo asks coolly. Storm Bow rests just inside the window to his right.

“Because you’re running from something.”

Hanzo fumes through his nose. He looks away from Gabriel, and his silence is enough of an admittance. He does not look at McCree.

Gabriel relaxes his stance, folds his arms across his chest as he picks the papers from the hood. His sneer is replaced by a frown. “It’ll take about a week. You can go wherever the hell you want after that.”

“No. I cannot stay here for a _week_ ,” He contests.

Gabriel turns away towards the lobby, dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “McCree can put you up. You’ve got some extra space, eh _burro_?”

The cowboy nods once, frown in place of his usual smile. He shoots Hanzo a concerned glance.

“Yeah, sure _jefe_. Sure I can.”

Hanzo grinds his teeth together. He has no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 coming soon! I think it'll end up around 3 chaps total, with a possible epilogue.
> 
> (rating may also change wink wink nudge nudge say no more)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took forever to get out.... had to get it right. might come back with minor edits later.
> 
> sort of a filler chap but i like it anyways. hope you do too! :)
> 
> EDIT: came back with a rehash to the gabe/jesse interaction and a few changes to some other details. imo gabe was too one-dimensional in the previous version and I wasn't acknowledging him as a proper character. also added some plotty goodness that should add to the drama later. pls enjoy if you're re-reading :))) Also actively working on ch 3!

“Look, I ain’t gonna try no funny business so don’t worry. _Jefe_ just can’t leave things well enough alone sometimes.”

McCree stomps up the stairs in front of Hanzo, smoke trailing from his mouth. The stairs are rickety, concrete on metal; the railings spattered with rust due to poor maintenance. An apartment row fit for a small town mechanic’s salary.

It’s well past midnight, and moonlight floods the open-air hallway. They stop at the second door from the end. McCree drops his smoke and crushes it under the heel of his boot; the butt is one more casualty to many others littered there.

His jaw clenches, unclenches as he rustles in his pocket. Hanzo’s eyes stick on the glint of his metal arm in the moonlight as he unlocks the door.

“The couch is a pull out,” The cowboy grunts as he shuffles into the modest living space. “I’ll gitcha some sheets.”

Hanzo drops his bag on the floor next to the couch. The fabric is worn but clean; much like the rest of the interior, though the fixtures are painfully outdated.

When McCree returns with sheets in hand, they make quick work of setting up the bed. The anger has bled from Hanzo since his altercation with the cowboy’s _jefe_. McCree shoots him glances as they tuck the sheets around the glorified cot, eyes crinkled around the edges in a concerned pout, remorseful of the events that brought him a new house guest. Hanzo appreciates the sentiment, though he is glad the cowboy says little. He’d be lying if he weren’t still peeved that McCree started the whole ordeal.   

Deep purple marks sag beneath his eyes in the bathroom mirror. Hanzo pulls on a cotton shirt and some gym shorts. At this point, he’s so tired he could sleep in comfort on a bed of nails.

McCree is rooting in his refrigerator when Hanzo pads back into the hallway.

“Care to join me for a smoke?” Two bottles of beer clink together in McCree’s hand, and the ‘fridge door closes with a _snkt_. Hanzo ignores the way the man’s eyes flick across his tattooed forearm.

“Sure,” he agrees. Hanzo sees it for what it is: an apology.  

On the balcony, he cracks open the beer, takes a sip. Savors the bitter liquid as it rolls across his tongue and warms his throat. It is weaker than what he normally drinks but he does not dislike the taste. To his right, McCree leans on the railing and lights up a cigarillo, takes a deep inhale.

“I hope y’aint sore at me bout the car,” he starts talking through the smoke. It distorts his voice, like something is stuck in his throat. A wry smile crinkles his bearded cheek. “To be honest I just wanted t’see ya again. Shoulda been ten minutes ta getcha fixed up an’ on yer way.”

The smile tugs down into a grimace. Thick, fragrant smoke turns opaque as it drifts past the brim of his hat, the line of his throat.

“Reyes don’t mean no harm, but he was the one that cottoned on to the fakes. He's uh. Former ATF, y'know.”

“Perhaps it was for the best,” Hanzo sighs, drops his eyes to the pavement below. The bottle’s neck sits limp in his hands.

The cowboy sips from his own. “So, you… uh --” He tongues the end of the cigarillo in hesitation. The ember flares. ”You really yakuza?”

Hanzo narrows his eyes and cuts a glare at the man.

“I have not been involved for quite some time.”

McCree holds his hands up in mock defense. The cigarillo waggles in his teeth. “I aint judgin’, just curious is all. We thought you was headed down Mexico, runnin drugs or some such. Can't really go down there empty handed so it was a little confusin’.” he chuckles, low and deep. McCree seems more relaxed here, in the cool and the dark, than he ever did in the diner.

“Ya goin somewhere special then?” He prys.

Hanzo frowns. He glares at the bubbles rising to the top of his beer.

“No. Just… away.”  

The cowboy shifts, hums, scratches absently at his bare forearm. ”Ah, sorry. Sore subject, I guess.”

“It is fine.” Hanzo waves him away. Perhaps he does owe an explanation.

His mouth flaps open, closed, then open again; the aborted sentences vanish before they begin. He is unsure where to start, or even how.

McCree says nothing else, his eyes glitter with reflected streetlight. Patiently waiting while Hanzo works out the kinks in his jaw.  

“My father … passed away.” He forces out, finally. “Several months ago. He left the car to my brother and I.” Hanzo breathes in deep, lets the air fill his lungs. Pushes it out just as slow.

“ _He_ was yakuza. Not the… best father, perhaps. But most our fond memories of him involve that car. My brother thought it was foolish to keep, and wanted to sell it. I..  did not. Regardless of its history.

“We fought about it. A lot.” He huffs at the stinging memory, smothering it with beer. “Worse than we ever have. And so I took the car and left.”

Crickets chirp to fill the silence. Wind whistles between the apartment buildings, and streetlights buzz in the distance.  

“Sorry for your loss, pardner.” McCree rumbles. His flesh hand rubs through his beard, the other stubs out his waning cigarillo. “I ain’t got no siblings but… sounds like y’all got yerselves in a right mess, there.”

Hanzo bites the inside of his cheek. He agrees: “We did.”

 

* * *

 

When he wakes the first day, the apartment is empty. Dust motes drift through sun shafts that pour through the sliding balcony door, the unoccupied air tastes like stale smoke.

Hanzo sits up and scrubs at his eyes. A note rests on the kitchen counter, a swirling scrawl hatched across the middle.

_Gone to cover for Reyes -- Probly be back around dinnertime. Help yourself to the fridge._

He doesn’t look at the refrigerator, or any of the cabinets. Instead, Hanzo crawls back into the sheets, placing his head firmly away from the encroaching sunlight. Lethargy settles in his bones.

For the rest of the day, he drifts. He has no knowledge of the time, chooses not to look at his phone, the missed calls and several messages listed on his lock screen. He sleeps away the grumbling of his stomach.

The cowboy returns after sundown, and says nothing when he finds the man still in bed.

The following days go by much the same: a slow drip, like some fevered dream. When he asks McCree about the car’s paperwork, he gets are nothing more than noncommittal grunts, or a shrug of the man’s wide shoulders. So he continues to sleep, and eats when he feels like it, which is not often. He does nothing but take up space in McCree’s small apartment.   

One morning, he stirs to the rich smell of frying fat and salt; bacon and eggs sizzling to a crisp on McCree’s stove. His stomach growls like a rabid wolf and Hanzo groans, twisting in the cot to crane his head towards the kitchen.

McCree is shifting around in a shuffling dance, humming low while he cooks breakfast. It is off tune, but pleasant nonetheless.

“Howdy,” McCree greets him. He pushes the eggs around in the pan with a spatula. “It’s my day off,” He explains. “Figured we’d get outta here, if’n you’re up for it? Thought I’d show ya around town or somethin’.”

Hanzo sits up and rests his wrists on his knees. The thought of going outside turns his stomach. He feels disgusting, and is desperately in need of a shower -- but there’s a hopeful look on McCree’s face, and it leads Hanzo to assume that McCree will pout if he refuses the invitation. There’s no need to drag the cowboy into the doldrums, as well.

“If it’s no trouble, I suppose.”

A smile breaks across McCree’s face like a wave. It is beautiful in the morning sunlight.

“Naw. It’ll be my pleasure, darlin’,” he drawls.   

After breakfast, they tool around the small town on McCree’s motorcycle. Hanzo is no stranger to them -- he and Genji drove motorcycles often when they were young, doing “errands” for their father around the streets of Japan. Though different, American motorcycles are no less admirable. The engine in the cowboy’s bike produces the same purring rumble that he’s used to, comforting like his arms wrapped around Jesse’s solid middle.  

Lunch happens at a local cafe, where McCree seems equally familiar with these waitresses as in the diner. Hanzo is thrilled when he finds espresso on the menu; it is a fraction too acrid, but he appreciates it anyway, smiling as the cowboy regales him with tall tales of teenage antics.  On the way back to the bike McCree spots a pair of finely hewn cowboy boots in a shop window, similar enough to the italian leather that Hanzo is so fond of. He spends the rest of the walk through the town trying to coax Hanzo to _just try em on, see how ya like em!_ Every time, Hanzo adamantly refuses.  

(He wonders later if it qualifies as a date. If it does, it’s the best one he’s ever had.)   

They end up watching old movies through the evening, lounging across the weathered couch with the last of McCree’s beers. The old cathode television flickers and scans sometimes but the picture isn’t bad enough to annoy him. Hanzo lets himself sink into the warmth and mismatched furniture and stale smoky smell. He feels comfortable, in this strangers house.

Steve McQueen jumps a fence over a dirt ramp in a cruiser not unlike Hanzo’s own. The landing is sloppy and jostles both the car and the driver far too much for someone with experience performing such a maneuver. Hanzo sneers into the glaring light-- he could do much better.

“Pfah. That is much easier than they are making it look,” He scoffs at the screen.

McCree cranes his neck from where it rests against the couch cushion. They’re both on their way to solidly drunk, and the cowboy’s movements are slow and lazy.  

“You an expert on movie drivin’?” He slurs.

Hanzo smirks into his next gulp of beer. He stretches out on the couch, lets his feet rest on McCree’s thighs. He doesn’t comment when McCree rests his hand on Hanzo’s ankle.

“No. I did not drive in movies,” he says.

The implication makes McCree’s lip curl.

“Well darlin’, I’d like to see you drive for real one day.” He waggles his eyebrows, eyes hooded.

Hanzo barks a sharp laugh. “Hah! Perhaps when we are more sober, cowboy,” He concedes.

His eyes slide back over to the screen, interested in the old film’s resolution. McCree frowns, but he misses it -- any _moment_ passes without further thought.

 _Genji would like him_ , Hanzo thinks. And curses his traitorous mind.

 

* * *

 

Jesse whistles, tune aimless, while cleaning the garage walls. He rubs the rag soaked with ammonia vigorously against the dark brown flecks that pepper this section of the garage. The paint bleaches the more he scrubs, leaving obvious splotches. Even though the wall is clean, at this rate he’ll have to repaint the whole damn thing -- he shoulda cleaned them last night, when they were still fresh.

A loud creak, smack from behind him: the door to the lobby opens and shuts. Combat boots thud familiar but uneven across the concrete floor. 

Gabe is back from his smoke break. 

“You gotta watch the blood spatter when you work these guys over  _ jefe _ ,” He calls over his shoulder. “I'll be cleaning the bits off this wall till my arms are dust!”

Jesse drops the rag in the bucket and turns to look at his mentor, stripping off his gloves. The coarse hair around Reyes’ temples has salt and peppered with age; his brows are knit, frown firm on his scarred face. It’s about as fond as  _ el jefe _ gets.   

Gabe stops, and crinkles his nose in disgust. “The hell are you listening to?” 

From the garage speakers, a solemn vocalist chants ethereal notes before a tonal stringed instrument. Jesse can’t remember what it’s called. 

He scratches the back of his head, hand tracking down to the side of his beard. “Oh. It’s uh,  _ koto _ , or somethin. Hanzo was listenin’ to it for his morning meditation. Said it was s’posed to be relaxing, so I thought I’d try it out,” he explains. 

A  _ sha-mi-sen _ , Hanzo had called it.  _ Yeah, that’s right _ . 

“Kinda is, I guess,” Jesse adds, shrugging his shoulders. 

Gabe only responds with silence, and so McCree returns to his scrubbing. He pulls the gloves back on and tries to ignore the heated glare pointed at the back of his neck. Concentration forces his tongue between his teeth, pinched as he works on a particularly stubborn stain. 

A chill works its way down his spine, his hair stands on end. Reyes stares at him so hard it’s god-damn  _ creepy _ .  

The rag meets the edge of the bucket with a wet  _ slap _ . Jesse pops his chin up, and meets his  _ jefe _ ’s glare with an equal one of his own. 

“ _ Whatcha starin’ at me for? _ ” he snaps,  _ en Español _ . 

Fuck. Gabe can always tell he’s irritated if he starts the damn argument in Spanish. 

“ _ You better watch yourself, burro _ ,” he bristles back. 

Jesse switches back to English, just to spite himself. 

“I'm bein’ careful!” McCree stands, throws his arms out in exasperation. “He's just a normal guy, I'm tellin’ ya.”

Gabe growls, low and resonant. He stalks closer, proffering the tablet clutched in his hands, encased in black plastic and rubber. Government issue.  

“Do you know who he  _ is _ ?”  _ Jefe _ spits. “Hanzo  _ Shi-ma-da _ . Of the fuckin’  _ Shimada _ - _ gumi _ .” He holds up the tablet, taps the back with a swollen, gnarled finger. “I looked his ass up, you know. He’s a killer.”

“And I ain’t one?” Jesse protests through grit teeth.  After Gabe’s clue about the yakuza tattoo that first night, he’d done a little snooping of his own. Well, maybe  _ snooping  _ wasn’t quite the word for it -- but Hanzo had been careless enough to leave some kind of family heirloom hanging out of his bag, a little ceramic bottle. He and Gabe both spent enough time in Japan to know that double-dragon  _ ouroboros _ anywhere. 

But Jesse doesn’t have the clearance that Gabe does. 

Reyes shakes the tablet at him again. Encouragement to look for himself. 

McCree’s hand shoots out and snatches the tablet from Gabe’s clutches. He flips through through the information on the screen, eyes darting as he scans through the list. Murder, extortion, torture -- you name it, the guy’s done it. All before age thirty. 

_ Shit. _

He gives up when he realizes the scrollbar is nothing more than a sliver, and not even a third of the way down the page. 

“ _ Jefe _ , you know you and I  _ both  _ got a rap sheet twice as long.” He bleats, and bites the bait: “Why you showin’ me this?”

“ _ Mijo _ ,” Gabe says. He takes the tablet, taps an entry. Hands it back. 

McCree is greeted with photos of the crime scene. The body lying in the dirty alley is unrecognizable compared to the photo of the smiling youth listed opposite. Blood is everywhere, sharp splatters from sword slashes and the slump of the body’s entrails, bleeding into puddles formed by the break of Japanese winter. Bright flash gives each photo a clinical feel, each littered with neon, numbered markers.   

Genji Shimada. His own  _ brother _ .

This boy suffered, died in nothing short of agony. Authorities say they have no lead on the culprit, but Hanzo remains as suspect  _ numero uno  _ despite his disappearance following the crime. The Japanese government will never pursue charges because of his yakuza name.

_ Shit. _

McCree hands off the tablet, and slumps back into his chair, head held in his hands. Despite the gloves, they still smell strongly of ammonia. 

Callouses track down his face and find purchase in his beard. There’s no way he can reconcile the quiet, contemplative man he’s come to know over the past week and a half with the troubled youth listed by Gabe’s database query. 

“You gave me the go’head anyway. What happened to that, huh  _ jefe _ ?” He complains.

Gabe scoffs. “ _ Estupido _ , I'm just trying to warn you. Don’t get that soft heart of yours involved.”

McCree harumphs, arms across his chest, eyes fixed on the loose bolt twirling between  _ jefe _ ’s fingers.

“Too late for that, ain’t it?” He laments, scratching at his scraggly beard to hide the nervous tic of his prosthetic, the flush creeping up his cheeks. “I told you, he ain't interested anyway. Guess I ain’t his type.” he grumbles. “He ain't even give me his phone number.”

“I need you focused,  _ bobo _ . Not distracted by some  _ puto  _ that won’t let you hit.” 

“An’ why’s that?” 

“Let's just say I got a bad feeling,”  _ Jefe  _ says, and suddenly Jesse understands.

McCree hesitates when he asks the question. 

“Somethin... comin down the pipe?” 

Gabe shifts. Taps the loose bolt on the tool rack Jesse cleaned first. Looks brand new for being damn near coated in brains and goop two hours ago.

“Maybe.” Gabe croaks. 

Jesse curses. “ _ Shiiit. _ ” A moment’s pause, and then: “Heard from Jack in a while?”

Gabe’s face cuts into a severe frown. He stares at the bolt looped between his fingers, as a bamboo flute whistles forlorn in the background. 

It’s enough of an answer. 

* * *

 

Hanzo moves from listless to restless. The day out on the town broke his depressive symptoms. He hasn’t heard an update on the car registration in days. It's been far past the week Gabriel originally quoted him.

McCree lumbers through the door to his apartment just after sundown, right in sync with the usual schedule to which Hanzo has become accustomed. Instead of moving to grab a beer, he stops at the foot of the couch.

Hanzo looks up from his phone. It’s a break in the routine.

“Hey, you up for somethin’?” McCree asks. There’s a sly quirk to the cowboy’s grin, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Hanzo is intrigued.

“What did you have in mind, cowboy?”

He jangles a set of keys, clutched between his metal index finger and thumb.

“Those are my keys,” Hanzo folds his arms, mind whirring. “I thought Reyes threatened to kill you if you took them.”

“Well honey, Reyes ain’t gonna be back until tomorrow.” He grins wider, waggles his eyebrows. “I’m _jefe_ today. Thought’cha could show me some o’ them drivin’ skills yer so proud of.”

Hanzo catches the keys in his lap, and frowns. “Who is watching the shop?”

McCree huffs like a petulant child, throws his hands up in frustration. “Would you just git yer damn boots on? Mako’s watchin’ the got-damn shop. Jesus Christ,” He shuffles around in a circle, and fixes on Hanzo again. “Ain’t no one comes by the shop at night ‘cept for folks like you.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow in an attempt to feign offense, but his lip curls up in a teasing smirk. “ _Folks_ like me?”

“You know what I mean,” McCree glowers. “Just, come on.”

By the time they get to the garage, McCree is vibrating with excitement. Hanzo watches him with amusement as he opens the garage, plops himself in the cruiser’s passenger seat, and tosses Hanzo the keys.

The engine feels like heaven under Hanzo’s feet, vibrating right into his bones. Anticipation threatens to swallow him as they leave. He has to concentrate as McCree directs him down the sleepy late night streets to an empty lot.

When the gate comes into view, the cowboy hops out and pulls the it open for Hanzo to drive through. The lot is… not quite what he expected.

It’s completely dirt, the soft kind of sand that makes up most of the desert. Though the side facing the road is lined with a chain-link fence, the other end is vaguely defined by lonely cacti. In all, it is roughly the size of a football pitch.

“This is it?” Hanzo asks when Jesse slams the passenger door shut.

“Yeah, it’s good, I promise. Real worked over.” Jesse thumbs his hat back. “Mako likes to take his buddies from the junkyard out here, sometimes they blow shit up. It’s real cool --” He grins, only to meet Hanzo’s displeased glare.

“I- uh. I mean they sweep the ground for shrapnel and shit, so y’aint gotta worry bout those pretty tires, is what I’m sayin.”

“Ah,” Hanzo nods.

He breathes in through his nose, relaxing. Feels the vibration beneath his palms, the tension in the clutch beneath his foot.

McCree is impatient. “Well, what’re ya waitin’ for? Open ‘er up, sweetheart,”

“Jesse.” He turns his head; locks eyes with the cowboy. “I am the driver. Not you.”

His feet work the gas, the clutch, the shifter--- and the car rockets out of stillness.

Torque grips them both by the hips as Hanzo rips the steering wheel to the right. The tires dig into the soft earth and spin until they gain traction. The cruiser slides in a finely executed hundred-and-eighty degrees, before launching itself in the opposite direction.

McCree hoots and hollers as they tool around the empty lot. Hanzo repeats the maneuver just before they reach the cactuses that line the far side.

The cowboy grins, and laughs as he pulls it into a figure eight, kicked up dust thrumming through the windows. Yellow teeth in a wide grin, hand on the weathered stetson. Dust and hot rubber sting Hanzo’s nose when he laughs in return.   

Suddenly Hanzo is eighteen. It is not Jesse in the passenger seat, but Genji, only sixteen with hair as green as the neon sign of their favorite ramen shop. Laughing loud in his ear while they do much the same on the asphalt tarmac of a racetrack in Tokyo.

Their father bought out the whole track for the day, just so Hanzo could show off. Genji, for his part, leans half his torso out the window. He waves to their father seated in the grandstand, smile splitting his face wider than Hanzo’s ever seen.

Hanzo slams on the brakes. The car stutters, and comes to an abrupt stop in a cloud of dust. It sticks to the wetness on Hanzo’s face.

“I think that is enough,” he chokes, stepping out of the car.

Hanzo presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. McCree saw, he knows he saw--

“Hey!” McCree shouts from the car. The passenger door opens, slams closed again. The cowboy’s boots crunch against the dirt, the ridiculous spurs jingle.

“Hey. Hanzo.” Jesse says, closer now. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Hanzo tilts his head to the sky in an attempt to stem the tide. It works, to a degree.  

He shakes his head. He does not look at McCree.

“Nothing,” he says. He takes a deep breath to steady his voice. “As I told you before, this car has many memories. Not all of them are ones I want to remember.”

The cowboy is silent. There’s a rustle of fabric, the small creak of shocks as Jesse leans on the car’s front bumper.

“Pretty, ain't it?” He says finally.

Hanzo turns around. Smiling, not quite following the cowboy’s train of thought. His eyes are still damp around the corners.

“What?”

“The stars. Y’can't get nothin like this in the cities. Out here, it's _au naturale_.”

Stunned, Hanzo looks up. This time, he sees the sky for what it is. Inky blackness, interwoven with shades of purple and blue; the fabric speckled with innumerable flecks of light.

“Indeed. They are... beautiful.”

“C’mere,” Jesse pats the bumper next to him with his metal hand, _clunk clunk_. Hanzo can’t see the cowboy’s face from the distance and the dim light, but he moves to take the spot anyway.

For a long while, they sit on the bumper and look at the stars.

McCree’s voice rumbles out of the silence like his motorcycle: a comforting purr.

“Listen, Hanzo…”

Hanzo tilts his head, eyeing the cowboy sidelong. Indication that he’s listening.

“I know you and your kin got some bad blood. But I think you oughta go apologize to him. Try and work it out, y’know? I can see it eatin’ at ya somethin’ fierce.” 

The stars and twinkle back in Jesse’s eyes, tousled hair like a mane underneath. His own eyes lock with the cowboy’s, and a warmth bleeds across his chest from the intensity of his gaze. 

Hanzo is struck by the intimacy of the moment. He is-- well. He is quite fond of this Jesse McCree.

“Perhaps,” he says, ducking his head away. 

Later, they pull the car back into the garage and wipe it down for dust as best they can. Gabriel will know they took it out, the wipedown is shoddy at best, and Hanzo was too emotionally exhausted to care.

At least they tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens *wiggles fingers*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made some edits to ch 2, mostly the interaction between gabe and jesse. 
> 
> sorry these chaps are taking ages. this one is a bit choppy.

McCree rises with the sun despite the late night. Swipes the drool from his face with the back of his hand, bites back the bitter taste of bile and nightmares.

A pair of jeans from the floor get the sniff test -- clean enough. He tugs his last clean tee over his head, a gray ringer Gabe gave him two christmases ago. From the frost on the windows, it’s mighty chilly this morning. His favorite leather bomber goes over the top, just to be safe. He’s too far south to own a scarf or else he’d put one o’ them on, too.  

The rich smell of coffee hits him when he trots out to find his boots and keys. Hanzo is there, seated at the small kitchen bar, hot mug in hand while he peruses the newspaper.

A grin cracks across Jesse’s face unbidden.

_He’s a killer, mijo._

_Jefe_ ’s warning is never far from his mind, but McCree finds it impossible to heed. He tries not to ogle the way Hanzo’s dark hair frames his face like a silk curtain, the morning sun pouring onto those cheekbones like liquid gold.

They nod a pleasant _good morning_ to each other as Jesse shuffles around the kitchen. Sure, the cowboy’s got questions, lots of em, in fact. But, McCree has his own secrets too, and it ain’t really his place to pry. More and more he’s ingratiated himself with the man’s dry wit and sharp tongue. Nothing Hanzo says is wasted -- from thoughtful critiques of the old movies they watch to the way he sits and listens to Jesse’s short and fanciful tales, that little quirk of a smile saying so much and nothing at all.   

How he’d love to wake to that beautiful face instead of the stench of hot blood and gunshots ringing in his ears.  

McCree’s metal fingers wrap around the door handle when an idea strikes him.

Gabe’s gonna _kill_ him for this.

He turns back, hand still on the handle, and eyeballs the other man before he speaks. Hanzo sips his coffee, attention absorbed in the newspaper.

“Y’wanna come into the shop today?” Hanzo’s head pops up. Jesse chews on the inside of his cheek. “Might be better than well--” He gestures to the bare apartment “-- this, for twelve hours,”

The smile that breaks across Hanzo’s face is worth the trepidation.

 

* * *

 

Jesse strolls into the garage like he owns the place, spurs jingling every step his boots clack on the concrete floor. The bay doors facing east are wide open, letting in the cool morning air and crisp, bright sunlight.  

“Here we are, darlin’,” He grins, definitely _not_ still giddy from the feeling of Hanzo’s arms wrapped snug around his ribs on the ride over. Certainly not from the little smirk dancing across Hanzo’s lips, either.

A few mismatched chairs are bustled against the wall, Jesse gestures to them. “Make yourself comfortable, I’m gonna go say hey to Gabe. Prolly grab some lunch around noontime but it depends on what we got goin’ on.”

Hanzo hums in understanding but wanders deeper into the garage. His eyes are fixed on the cruiser, and so Jesse lets him be.

Gabe’s in his office as usual, light on and door open, finishing up paperwork from the previous night.

“Howdy,” Jesse leans on the jamb and knocks as a courtesy, tipping his hat.

Gabe looks up from his paperwork, replies with a nod. “Mornin’ _vaquero_ ,” he grunts. There’s a clear moment when he takes in Jesse’s silly grin, and slides his eyes over to the office’s open blinds. His jaw clenches tight when he spots Hanzo, still loitering near the sleek black cruiser.

Jesse throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Hope y’dont mind, brought a friend along.”  

“Great,” he deadpans, still glaring.

“Do I have something on my face?” Hanzo muses aloud. _Fella’s got eyes in the back of his pretty head._

 _Jefe_ snorts, a flash of his straight white teeth.

“Got my eye on you, Shimada,” He shoots back, the low rumble of his throat loud enough for Hanzo to hear. It’s not entirely a threat, given the quirk of amusement in the wrinkles on Gabe’s face.

 _Jefe_ pushes back from his desk. “We’ll talk in a minute,” he rumbles as he shoulders past Jesse and towards the lobby. Probably headed for the bathroom and a coffee, as much a creature of habit as Jesse himself.  

McCree putters around Gabe’s office. He doesn’t usually come in here-- not because of any particular rule, he just respects the man’s space. Disregarding, of course, the several traumatizing experiences involving Jack laid out across the desk, which really only taught him how to knock before entering.

The papers on Gabe’s desk are organized some way, for sure. Gabe probably knows where everything is, but Jesse’s got no hope in the world. He leafs through some of the thicker stacks out of absent minded curiosity. He’s glad that _Jefe_ ’s got a better sense for business than he does; not only does he not envy the amount of paperwork that man goes through in a day, but he enjoys not having to put up with bureaucratic bullshit either. Jesse enjoys spending his days covered in oil, elbow deep in any chassis that rolls through their little section of desert.  

McCree scans the papers lazily. Bills, bills, and more bills. Some for the shop, and some for the shop’s customers. He’s about to shuffle them back into place when his eyes stick on a name.

 _Hanzo Shimada._ Not a bill. Underneath this particular page lay something hard and flat, metal rather than paper. Jesse uncovers them.

They’re California license plates. Legit ones. The papers in his hand are a letter from Gabe’s contact stapled to a legal registration. Hanzo’s papers.

He peers at the date. _Jefe_ must have got them in today, right? But no. They’re postmarked one day after Hanzo arrived.

 _What the fuck?_  

“So I saw you let Shimada take out the car,” Reyes starts, gruff. Jesse pops his head up to find _Jefe_ leaned against the doorway, frowning. He hadn’t heard the man come back.

“Yeah.. we was just havin a lil fun is all. Guy wouldn’t know how to smile if it bit him in the ass,” Jesse jokes, halfhearted.

Reyes straightens. McCree knows his voice gave too much away. The papers crumple under his grip.  

 _Jefe_ knits his brows. “What are you lookin’ at, _burro_ ,” he rumbles low.

 _“You had these long, boss?_ ” Jesse bites back _en Español_ , proffering the papers before Reyes can respond.

Gabe _tchs_ , showing his teeth, and looks away. “ _I was just holding on to them till the time was right._ ”

“ _The hell is that supposed to mean?_ ” Jesse’s teeth grind together in frustration. “ _You can’t just keep the guy here forever--_ ”

“ _Come on, mijo. It’s all in good fun. He given you his number yet, at least?_ ”

McCree sputters in indignation. He can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“ _I_ told _you he ain’t interested! I can’t believe you did this, I--_ ”

“Something wrong?” Hanzo’s voice filters in from the garage.

He sticks his head in the door over _Jefe’s_ shoulder. His eyes track from Jesse’s flushed face to the stack of papers clutched in his hand. It’s not hard for him to draw the right conclusion.

“Ah, are those my papers?”

A dead weight drops in Jesse’s stomach.

“Yeah. They are,” he confirms, voice weak to his own ears.  

“Excellent. I would like to be on my way then, please.”

“R-right now? We uh, we just got here, honey.”

Reyes shoots him a look. Jesse’s not sure if it’s for the casual endearment, or the way Jesse’s trying to wiggle out of this happening, just like he’d been pissed at _Jefe_ for moments prior.  

“Yes, I have waited quite enough.” Hanzo nods, decision made. “I do have to pick up my bag, as well.” he reminds them.

Gabe frowns, and sighs. “I can watch the shop for a few more minutes.”  

Jesse just… locks up. He can’t find the right thing to say. There isn’t really anything he can say now that would get Hanzo to stay.

 _Jefe’s_ there, of course, to give him a verbal kick in the rear.

“ _Idiota_. Give him the papers.” It’s as close as Gabe ever gets to pity.  

Jesse’s smile is tight and forced as he hands them off.

“Sure. Here ya go. Keys are on the rack,” he says. “Meetcha at my place.”  

 

* * *

 

It only gives Jesse twenty more minutes.

Hanzo slams the trunk shut, capping off the dread that roils in McCree’s stomach. The car is ready to go: new plates, packed up, full tank of gas. All that’s missing is the driver.

Hanzo stops in front of him for a goodbye, just within reach.

_Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him kisshim--_

“So uh. See ya around I guess,” he says instead. He scratches at the nape of his neck, metal fingers cool against his hot skin.

Hanzo purses his lips, brown eyes cast off to the side . “I --” He starts, but takes a sharp breath to steady his thoughts. “I believe I owe you something. Do you have your phone?”

“Uh. Yeah?”  

Hanzo holds out his hand, dragon peeking out underneath the sleeve. He flexes his fingers. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Jesse fumbles it from his pocket and hands it over.   

Hanzo spends a few moments tapping on the screen, and then hands it back. The screen left open is Jesse’s Contacts, the newest one on display. _Hanzo Shimada_.

“My number. In case I need someone to… _fix her up_ , as you say.”

McCree smiles, so big his cheeks hurt.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo leaves.

Aside from the initial ‘ _hey its me’_ exchange, messages from Hanzo are few and far between. The man keeps long hours on the road, as much as Jesse keeps at the shop to keep from staring at the walls of his empty apartment. The texts he does get are less of a conversation and more of a sporadic update: where he is, how the car is running, how the drive is going. Whether he’s decided on a final destination, or really, just the next one.

He gets a selfie when Hanzo his the eastern border of Texas. It’s just him, stone-faced as usual, taking up a third of the frame. Behind him is a giant metal Texas star, a backdrop of lush green pine trees.

“Needs your boots,” is all the caption says. Reyes smacks his shoulder for the sappy smile.

After that, Hanzo decides to turn north. Most of his drive through the heartland brings complaints of _how much corn can there be in one place_ and _do people really live out here?_ Regardless, Hanzo seems to enjoy himself throughout. Jesse discovers the man has a strong preference for barbecue after he gets several pictures of delicious looking meats that Hanzo picks up from roadside stands along the way. McCree’s stomach grumbles every time from sheer jealousy.

Somewhere in Memphis Hanzo sends him a picture of the most questionable looking piece of … well, _something_ , that Jesse has ever seen.

 

Hanzo Shimada [Nov 15 15:27:49]

You must try this

You [Nov 15 15:30:05]

looks like puke??? or shit

Hanzo Shimada [Nov 15 15:34:20]

I thought so too. We must come back here

 

_We._

Jesse bites his lip, slides his phone back into his overalls. Tries to tamp down on the surge of affection swelling across his chest. He’s got to finish tightening the struts on Mrs. Wasserman’s Oldsmobile, and deal with three more oil changes before the afternoon’s done. He doesn’t have time to hope about a future where he takes a road trip with _Hanzo-fuckin-Shimada._

“Yo, _pendejo_ ,” _Jefe_ calls, boots halting just past the front axle.

He waves the socket drill from under the car so Gabe can see where he is. “Yo, _jefe_.”

“Come see me when you’re done. We got a job.”

 

* * *

 

His phone lights up with a new picture message, and Jesse can’t fight the grin that shoots across his face. Hanzo’s in New York somewhere, some Big Apple suburb. In the picture he’s frowning, arms crossed, seated in the booth of a grimy cafe. He’s opposite the table from the camera and McCree is surprised to see others in the picture: to his left is a young black man with dreads, two thumbs up to the viewer. Craned around the corner of the frame is a goofy looking girl, pale with spiky, unruly hair pushed back by a pair of goggles. She’s the one holding the camera.

 

Hanzo Shimada [Nov 28 22:18:15]

howdy luv!!!!!! hanners wont shut up bout you

really tickle his biscuit eh???  x

Hanzo Shimada [Nov 28 22:19:54]

Please ignore that

Lena took my phone

You [Nov 28 23:00:05]

talkin about me shimada? ;)

Hanzo Shimada [Nov 28 23:02:10]

No.

Maybe.

 

“The hell are you smirking at, _burro_?”

He looks up from his phone at Gabe, eyes fixed on the road, hands on the wheel of the truck. They’ll be at Puerto Palomas within the hour. Probably time to start prep for a border search, or: why _Jefe_ tried to get his attention in the first place.

“Aw, it ain’t nothin,” He replies, looking out the passenger window to hide his bashful smile. “Y’know.”

Reyes gives him a side eye as they rumble down the dirt road, but says nothing.

The bags full of guns and ammo rattle together in the back seat of the cab.

 

* * *

 

They spend a week in Dorado casing the place. Together they map out Los Muertos supply routes, do reconnaissance like they used to fifteen years ago.

Jesse finds it hard to stay focused. Hanzo’s sent him a couple selfies with cheesy roadside tourist traps since they’ve been in Mexico, still heading north as far as McCree can tell. A few days ago he got one from the top deck at Niagara Falls, and Jesse wonders when Hanzo made it all the way to Canada.

Reyes chatters on the phone in the background to their contact. Jesse settles into a hole-ridden armchair in the mediocre motel, the third this week. They’re getting ready to move again.

McCree’s phone lights up again while he’s scrolling through some light reading material, trying to keep himself occupied while _Jefe’s_ on the phone. Another message. He pulls it open to take a peek and--

And his mouth goes dry.

Someone else has taken this picture, too. Hanzo stands in an apple orchard, colorful fall leaves scattered around his feet. He’s in the same leather jacket Jesse remembers, hands in his pockets, facing away from the camera. His hair is tied up neatly, shoulders relaxed. An early sunset lights his angular face in profile, and a light breeze whips his scarf gently aloft. The caption reads: _Maine_.  

Jesse saves that one. It won’t hurt if he puts it as his lock screen.

Not like Hanzo will ever see it anyway.

 

* * *

 

The black cruiser rolls to a stop under the gas station’s awning. A continuous stream of curses pours from Hanzo’s mouth, of _course_ it would be now, he was trying for Charlotte before midnight. At least he was close enough to find shelter from the neverending chilly drizzle.

He steps out under the fluorescent bulbs, and lets his eyes gloss over the exterior of the convenience store. _Wake County Kwik-E-Mart._ The parking lot is entirely vacant given the late hour. In the window he spots a clerk, but -- the clerk is no more than a gangly teenager who probably doesn’t even _own_ a car, nonetheless know how to change a tire. No help to him now.

Hanzo’s fingers are halfway frozen by the time he gets his phone from his pocket. He taps a few buttons to pull up Jesse’s smiling face and wild beard. The cowboy might be asleep, but Hanzo figures this situation warrants a late night emergency phone call.

“--llo?” Jesse rumbles as the line connects.

“Jesse,” He greets. There is a lot of background noise, nothing Hanzo can discern.

“Are you busy?” He asks, frowning.

“Naw, darlin’, just uh, hangin’ at the shop. Whatcha need?”

“I’m south of Raleigh, and I may have blown a tire.” He sighs, staring at the flat flap of rubber puddled underneath the front passenger wheel. “I.. do not know how to replace it. I was hoping you could help me.”

Hanzo winces through the loud guffaw on the other end. “NC? Well shit, darlin. Sure. Let me just--”

A sharp _blat-blat blat_ cuts through what Jesse was about to say, a clear report in the background. Lightning shoots across Hanzo’s chest and he grips the phone tighter, far too conditioned to the noise.

A demand: “ _What_ was that.”

“Oh, heh-heh, y’know, just some work in the shop is all--” A loud smack, probably a door closing. It muffles a string of vehement yelling in Spanish.

“ _Jesse_ ,” He hisses into the phone. “That was a _gun_ . Those were _gunshots_.”

Jesse is silent on the line. Unease settles in Hanzo’s stomach; if the silence continues he might vomit.

“What is _happening_ ? _Why_ are there gunshots?” His other hand clenches in the pocket of his jacket. If he could see his knuckles, they’d be white.

The cowboy breathes a deep sigh from the other end. When he replies, his voice is muffled, barely above a whisper.

“I can't tell you that, darlin. I'm sorry.”

Hanzo reels. He can’t process this right now. He can’t even _think_.

“Just… trust me, alright? You trust me, right honey?”

The hand in his pocket fists in his hair, beyond frustrated. He opens his mouth several times to speak, to say _something_.

Nothing comes out.

Shouting overtakes the other end of the line. Hanzo recognizes it immediately as one Gabriel Reyes. “ _Pendejo_! Get back in here! Who the hell are you--” then “-- is it that fucking yakuza? Are you kidding me--”

Jesse sounds frantic, and further away. “ _Jefe_! Shit! No no don't--”

The call ends.

Slowly, Hanzo removes the phone from his ear. Places the phone on the hood of his car, face down. Scrubs a hand across his temples.

Still has to change his tire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jess u fucked up m8


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow dialog
> 
> also: note rating change

_Shit. Shit fuck shit._

Jesse’s head rests firmly in his hands for the entire ride back from Dorado.

He sends a few texts like ‘ _hey can we talk’_ and ‘ _r u ok???’_ , but, as expected, there’s no response. McCree decides against sending anything else in the likely case that blowing up Hanzo’s phone will piss him off more. Instead, he spends the trip moping about like a lovesick teenager.

Reyes doffs the back of his head. Jesse scrambles to hold his hat on his head as _Jefe_ lays into him for the third time.

“ _Idiota_ . I thought we worked this shit out when you were seventeen! Who answers a phone call in the middle of a damn raid?” The old man gesticulates with his bandaged hand -- he had to punch through a window to get the raid started, got a little cut up. “What did you think he was gonna do, say ‘oh yes, _mi cielito_ , I don’t mind that you work for an international special ops force part time’? He’s a fucking yakuza on the run--”

“Former!” Jesse corrects.

“--fine, _former_ yakuza, whatever. Crissake, this is what I was trying to tell you to watch out for. To keep your head out of your _culo_.”  

“God, shut _up_ , will ya!” Jesse bleats, tugs his hat down over his face. “He ain’t talkin to me no more so ya got what ya wanted! Just… let a man mope in peace.”  

Jesse leans his head against the window, elbow propped on the door and chin in his palm. He’s never felt so sorry about a stupid decision all his life, and he’s made a hell of a lot of ‘em. The phone in his pocket is a conspicuous, empty weight.

Gabe rubs a hand across his grizzled face. “Mijo. I didn’t--” He breaks off with an exasperated sigh. “I never wanted that.”

He squeezes Jesse’s shoulder. The cowboy tries to take comfort in the gesture instead of getting pissed that he was just scolded like a child.

Reyes knows how it feels. It’s been forever since he’s heard from Jack, too.

 

* * *

 

Cool January wind whips through Jesse’s long hair. His bike thrums and whines as he shifts up and then down again, headed home from a long day at the shop. The sweat down his back chills him, and under his jacket he’s covered in oil and grease. He’s ready for a long shower, a nice cold beer, and the quiet of his apartment.

Life has returned to normal. Ish. Him and Gabe, they missed Thanksgiving on the raid, then spent a quiet and lonely Christmas together getting shit faced and watching Tarantino movies. Even _Mako_ had other people to spend time with than their sorry asses.

His three and a half weeks with Hanzo feels like a dream. For all he knows, the other man’s back where he came from. Just happened to pass up Jesse on the way.

McCree frowns, his hands tighten around the bike’s grips. His phone is a block of lead in his pocket, complete with the lock screen he still hasn’t changed and the empty message box under Hanzo’s name. A lesson learned, he supposes. Doesn’t quite heal the sting though.

His apartment complex slides into view as he turns the corner. Jesse tilts his boot and shifts down the bike as he rolls gently into the gravel lot, just like he has a thousand times before.

This time, however, something’s different. He blinks a few times, to make sure he’s seein’ right.  

A black cruiser rests, quiet and empty, in the parking space below his front door.

He reaches down and turns off the bike, pops the kickstand, dismounts. Glances around for a moment, if only to make sure that all else is the same. His spurs _chink-chink_ as he moseys up to the driver side door, boots crunching on the rocks, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

Upon closer inspection, the car isn’t actually empty. Something’s taking up the driver’s seat, and he recognizes the set of those thick shoulders, and the smart leather jacket wrapped around them.  

Hanzo is asleep, slumped over the steering wheel.

A knuckle-knock on the window startles the man awake. Jesse jumps a little himself, and Hanzo scrambles for something behind his chair before his brain catches up with his eyes.

“Howdy there, stranger,” Jesse says, loud enough to be heard through the window. Lets his eyes take in the face he’d never thought he’d see again -- Hanzo looks a little drowsy, but no worse for the wear. Disheveled, but still handsome as the day is long.

McCree’s not really sure what to do with his face, so he attempts to school it into something neutral.

“Jesse!” Hanzo exclaims, fussing with his jacket, the lock on the door, and finally bustles himself out of the car. Soon as his boots hit the earth he rushes forward into Jesse’s space, one hand lifting the cowboy’s jacket and prodding his sides, another grasping at the man’s bicep and forearms. McCree is -- a little startled, to be honest -- a little overwhelmed by all the contact.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt-- Did he hurt you?”

“Woah, woah!” Jesse holds up his hands for some space, mind whirring at Hanzo’s questions. “What? No, darlin.” He shakes his head vehemently. “You talkin about Gabe? Hell no.”

“Oh.” Hanzo stands back and huffs, cheeks a little flushed. He looks away. “Well. Good.”

McCree isn’t sure what else to say. He hadn’t exactly planned for this, so they stand for a moment in awkward silence. Hanzo chews his lip, fiddling with something in his jacket pocket.

“Y’wanna, uh. Come on up?” Jesse says finally, throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Just got off work but I wouldn’t mind some company and--”

Hanzo holds up his hands, waving them side to side. “No no, I would not wish to impose.”

“Aw, come on darlin’ just for a bit? It’s late as hell, y’ain’t drivin anymore tonight since I caught you takin’ that little cat nap there... ” Jesse steps closer, lets his voice drop. “I owe ya a beer, at _least_.”

Hanzo looks at him, pensive, brown eyes scanning McCree’s face -- for what, Jesse doesn’t know. After a moment he drops his gaze and sighs.

“Very well,” he concedes.  

 

* * *

 

Jesse stands in the bathroom. He goes through a mental checklist. Shower: on, warming up for a minute before he gets in. Clothes: off, sitting in a pile on top of the toilet, ready to be thrown in the hamper when he’s done. Lightbulbs: need replacing, given how the one on the far left flickers every minute or so. Heart: thudding in his chest at the thought of his company in the other room.

He feels electric, buzzing with energy since he saw the car sitting in the lot, like he’s having some kinda out-of-body experience. He never expected Hanzo to be here again. He never expected to _see_ Hanzo again.

McCree huffs at himself in the mirror, runs his hands through his hair, down his face.

He needs a distraction.  

Metal fingers find their way into his beard as he examines himself. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than the last time he looked, his whiskers scruffy and uneven. Too scruffy surely for someone like Hanzo, too rough and frayed around the edges.

Jesse takes the time before the shower fogs the mirror to try and wrangle the wavy curls into something respectable. The buzz of the trimmer clears his mind.

When he steps in the water is scalding, but that’s just how he likes it. McCree scrubs himself down, oil and dirt from a hard day’s work trailing down his legs, across the tub to the drain. About ten minutes he spends staring at the damn thing; the showerhead plasters hair all across his face while he’s stuck in his own head. Jesse doesn’t know what to do with himself now that Hanzo is here. Questions buzz around his head like mosquitoes on a hot summer night, each one taking him down a gopher hole so far he can’t see the end.

But. There’s this little worm wiggling beneath his ribs. It tells him something about the way Hanzo looks at him, or the fact Hanzo’s here at all.

Like maybe this time, he’s got a chance.

He finishes up, hustles to his room, straps himself into some sweatpants and a well-worn flannel. Even if he does have company, he’s gonna be comfortable. Hanzo’s on the porch already, leaned over the rail with his back to McCree. He’s got a beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. He didn’t even know Hanzo smoked.

Jesse grabs a beer for himself from the fridge. He takes a long look at Hanzo’s shoulders, the elegant line of his neck, his fine ass and thighs.

 _Damn._ He thinks. _Keep your cool, cowboy._  

He slides out onto the balcony. “I’m all squeaky clean now. Thanks for waitin’ up, sugar,” He rumbles with a cheeky grin, pulling the door shut.

Hanzo’s fingers tap against the label on the bottle. When the cowboy sidles up next to him, his eyes pin Jesse to the rail.

“I think you owe me an explanation,” Hanzo says. Right to the chase.

McCree lets out a long sigh. “Shit. Alright, okay.” He rubs the heel of his fleshy palm against his jaw. Hanzo’s eyes stick there, following the movement of his hand.

“You can’t tell no one else, right? Not a soul.”

Hanzo holds up a hand in a non-verbal _I swear_.

“Alright.” Jesse settles in with a deep swig of beer. It’s cold and bitter, sits in his throat just right. “I told you before that _jefe_ was former ATF, right?”

Hanzo nods.

“Well, he ain’t former ATF.” He takes the pause to pull the cigarillo out of his shirt pocket. He puts the end of it in his mouth, chews to maintain focus. “Used to work for a special ops division of Overwatch. Matter of fact, so did I.”

He hedges a glance at Hanzo, just to see how much shit he’s in.

The man’s brows are in his hairline. “What--”

Jesse holds up a hand. “Now, lemme finish ‘fore you start askin questions.” Hanzo shuts his mouth, nodding. McCree tongues the flakes of tobacco splintered between his teeth.

“Gabe n’ I worked together when I was real young, bout seventeen-eighteen. He got himself in some kinda way and they forced him to retire. I was already out here runnin my lil shop when he shows up on my doorstep and gives me the rundown.

“He stays out here with me for a quiet retirement, and gets to take jobs every now and then and I can tag along if I want. I had no problem, just like old times and I get to keep my shop. When you called me, we were in the middle o’ one.”

There’s a beat of silence as Hanzo chews over the information. His brows knit, his mouth opens and closes a few times as he rifles through the questions he wants to ask. Eventually, he settles on one.

“Why did you pick up?”

He looks Hanzo in the eyes. “Darlin’, you were _callin_ me at some ass end of the mornin’. Course I was gonna pick up.”

“I… had no idea.” Hanzo pauses. “I am sorry for my lack of contact. I… I did not know what to expect.”

“It’s alright,” he says. “Y’gave me a chance to explain. That’s about all i coulda asked for.”  

Hanzo gifts him with a hum and a small smile, smooths his bangs behind his ear while his gaze returns to the middle distance off the balcony. Silence falls between them like a comfortable shroud in the quiet night. It’s a welcome change, sharp in contrast to the awkward one from earlier. Jesse still vibrates with that surreal weightlessness as his eyes trace the line of Hanzo’s jaw, the cut of his throat as he sips his beer.

Before his mind can wander further, the cowboy slides over, bumps his shoulder into Hanzo’s.

“So,” He starts, forcing his eyes out over the railing’s edge as his elbows come to rest on it. “What brings you back in these parts, pardner? Other than my pretty face o’course,” McCree thumbs at his nose, grinning.

Hanzo rewards him with a quick smirk, but the flirt goes largely ignored. Thick and calloused fingers fidget with the edge of the bottle’s label.

“I am going to apologize to my brother,” he says.

Jesse blinks. Observes the man sidelong, and chooses his words with care.

“Well... ain’t that kinda hard?”

Hanzo tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Y’know. Uh.” If he’s not allowed to lie, then Hanzo isn’t either. “He’s six feet under half a world away is what I’m sayin.”

Hanzo goes rigid.

“What?” He balks. “What do you _mean_ ,” He says again, those pretty brown eyes like saucers, his fist clenched tight around the bottle in his hands.

Jesse absently considers the fact that he should have rid the former yakuza of potential weapons before having this conversation.

“Look, Hanzo,” He tries again, stepping back. Just enough room to defend himself if he needs to. “Don’t try and lie, alright? I told you the truth, now you tell me. What’re you really doin out here?”

There’s no response, so he continues. “I’ve seen the file. Your brother died eighteen years ago in Japan.” _At your hands_ , he neglects to add. Hanzo’s got enough to be pissed at him for.

Hanzo blinks. And then, something unexpected.

He bursts out laughing.

Jesse is _completely_ taken off guard. He throws up his hands in defense of the potentially unhinged, very dangerous man on his porch.

“Uh-- Woah now, calm down, i just--”

“You looked up my file?” Hanzo cries, still guffawing, almost doubled over and clutching his stomach. He straightens his heaving chest with effort, wipes _real tears_ from his eyes from how hard he’d been laughing. “Some _international black ops program_ thinks my brother is _dead_?”

“Well… yeah. I saw the pictures and everything.”

“Jesse,” he says, eyes glittering with mirth. “My brother is very much alive. He lives with me, in San Francisco. Look, look--” Hanzo whips out his phone, and pulls up a picture.

He shows it to Jesse.

The picture is ridiculous: Hanzo stands next to a man slightly taller than himself, their arms wrapped around one another’s necks, faces flushed with intoxication. They are both dressed in obnoxious, hand-knitted christmas sweaters that make Jesse itch just seeing the lint poking out from the wool. Between them, the family resemblance is clear. They share a nose and the shape of their cheekbones, but the similarities end there. Where Hanzo’s eyes are almond-shaped, the other man’s eyes are rounded and more expressive. Where Hanzo’s mouth is pulled into its sharp, usual scowl, the other man is grinning so wide that the camera flash reflects off his teeth. He even has a pair of antlers nested in his close cropped, neon green hair.

The man is a spitting image of the murdered brother’s photo. Older, sure. But undeniable.  

“This is from two years ago,” Hanzo continues, completely ignoring the image’s contents as he explains the situation. “We faked his death to get out of Japan. We really did have a fight, everything I told you before was true! I…” Hanzo turns the phone back to look at the picture. All the earnest honesty falls from his face. “I need to see him.”

“Well.” Jesse is gobsmacked. By both the photo, and Hanzo’s explanation. “Well, I’ll be damned.”   

Hanzo puts his phone back in his pocket and drains his beer, resting the empty bottle on the railing. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs to the brim before letting it out again like some great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He shakes his head; bangs dark as night fall across his face again, and Jesse just stares.

“Jesse,” he faces the cowboy. “I wanted to thank you.”

McCree scratches the back of his neck. “What fer?” He asks. “Seems I’ve just made a mess of things.”

“For helping me. With... the car,” Hanzo clarifies. He steps towards Jesse. “And myself.”

He tilts his chin up, looks the cowboy in the eye. It’s too close to be a casual _thank you_. The world narrows itself to the space between them; Jesse can smell the hops and smoke on the other man’s breath.

“You meanin t’kiss me?” McCree asks, smoky and soft. His eyelids feel heavy, but he can’t look away.

Hanzo leans forward. “Perhaps,” he concedes against Jesse’s lips.

They meet in a long, slow _smack_. Hanzo’s lips are chapped but hot, bitter from the beer and sour from the cigarette. Slick from the way his tongue licks against them.

Jesse wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Hanzo spares a moment for breath before surging forward again, plastering himself to McCree’s front. Jesse goes right with him, one hand to the other man’s neck as Hanzo threads his fingers through his belt loops. McCree uses his other hand to support their weight against the rail, grunts as Hanzo rubs up against him.

Distantly, a glass bottle shatters on the pavement one story below. Neither of them care enough to stop.

A sharp tug has him moving back through the screen door. He’s so absorbed in Hanzo and _god_ , Hanzo’s _mouth_ , he doesn’t notice they’ve moved into the living room until a sharp shove has his back against the couch cushions.

Hanzo stands above him, smug.

“Damn, darlin’,” Jesse’s chest heaves, leaning up on his elbows as Hanzo starts to remove his jacket. “God _damn_.”

Hanzo throws the jacket over the back of the couch. He crawls on top of the cowboy and kisses him again, absorbing all of Jesse’s attention. Light touches dance across McCree’s chest, Hanzo’s fingers sussing out the buttons of his flannel shirt.

Jesse leans his head back from the kiss, gasping. His right hand finds Hanzo’s arm, traces the raised skin underneath his intricate tattoo. The left worms its way to the man’s lower back, tracing the muscles there, not sure how far he can push.

Thick lips pepper hot, wet kisses down his neck and collarbone. Hanzo pops the buttons of his flannel open one by one.

When Hanzo finally gets the shirt open, he runs his fingers through the coarse hair on McCree’s belly and chest, letting his callouses roam over the cowboy’s nipples. Jesse groans; one of Hanzo’s hands threads itself into the hair at his nape while the other lingers on his ribs, thumb flicking gently against the peaked nub. The other man’s weight rests against Jesse like a thick blanket, hip bones and belt digging into the curve of his stomach.

“You are gorgeous,” Hanzo breathes above him.

McCree’s face heats, and he ducks his head away.

“Naw, y’all don’t mean that.”

Lips touch just beneath his ear. “I do not say things I do not mean,” Hanzo corrects him.

Jesse runs his flesh hand through Hanzo’s hair, pulling out the tie. It feels like silk and falls like a curtain around that angular face. His palm moves down to cup Hanzo’s cheek, thumb rubbing against the bone there; the pads of his fingers just touch his goatee.

“I ain’t the only gorgeous one here,” he breathes softly.

Hanzo’s eyes flick up from where they’d been lingering on his throat. They’re close enough now that Jesse can see the pores on the man’s face, every single eyelash, and he drinks it up like a man stranded in the Mojave. The look on Hanzo’s face is so open and vulnerable, Jesse’s chest _aches_.

“Awright, come on,” Jesse takes his prosthetic from where it rests on Hanzo’s lower back and wraps the forearm around the man’s ass.

Hanzo writhes against him as McCree shifts around on the couch. “What are you--”

Jesse stands up, holding all of Hanzo’s weight with his arms. He’s heavier than the cowboy expected, but Jesse can still manage it -- he’s been keeping up with his workouts, after all.

“That couch is fine and dandy,” He rumbles, “but lemme tell ya, the bed is so much better.”  

Hanzo’s shoulders tremble in his grip. “You are ridiculous!” He barks, full on _laughs_ ; wraps his arms around Jesse’s neck, his legs around Jesse’s hips as the cowboy does an awkward shuffle towards his bedroom.

He dumps Hanzo on the bed before attempting to smother the man with his body. Immediately Hanzo’s hands wrap around him to grasp and knead at his asscheeks, he can’t help the grin into their sloppy kiss.

While his tongue is trying for Hanzo’s tonsils, he occupies his hands. They trace their way down the seam of the man’s tight jeans, stroking underneath his thigh and around the curve of his ass, tilting his lower back off the bed. He memorizes the twist and flex of taut muscle under fabric, and he guides those powerful legs up and around his waist. Hanzo squeezes, the bastard, and forces a wanton moan from deep in Jesse’s gut.

They only stay like that for a moment. Hanzo’s hips twist with force, and Jesse’s arms flop limp behind his head, his back pressed into the duvet.   

The cowboy blinks up in awe. “Aw hell. I forgot you got combat training,” He says, sly grin budding on his lips. It really shouldn’t turn him on so much.  

“Of course you did,” Hanzo chuckles into his jaw. He smothers Jesse’s snarky retort with his tongue.  

Hanzo strips off Jesse’s sweatpants, and somewhere in that struggle McCree ensures that Hanzo loses his shirt. Heat bubbles deep in Jesse’s belly as they come together; he presses forward with his hips, uses his hands for leverage as he grinds the hard dick in his boxers against the soft denim of Hanzo’s jeans. It tears a gasp from the man above him, gets him a hard nip to the collarbone in retaliation.   

Jesse throws his head back, panting in rhythm with Hanzo’s frantic thrusts. It’s not the dirtiest dry-hump session Jesse’s ever experienced, but it’s sure as hell up there on his list because damn if the man coming apart above him ain’t the prettiest thing.

He runs his hands across the stiff plane of Hanzo’s bare shoulders, down his naked back. Traces both sets of fingers across that wide chest and shoulders paired with a trim waist. He’s painfully beautiful like this, pale skin flushed and stunning in the low moonlight filtering in from the window.

Cut from stone, if Jesse had to guess.

Gooseflesh prickles on Hanzo’s skin under his touches, shoulders trembling. He slows, beard catching against the stray hairs on Jesse’s neck.

“You cold, darlin’?” McCree breathes into the quiet between soft kisses to the man’s cheeks. “We could get on under the covers if y’want,”

“Yes,” he nods, voice raw. “Please.”  

Quickly, they shuffle around. Hanzo shucks off his pants, Jesse loses his shirt, and they pile themselves under the covers. Jesse reaches down, uses his knuckles to rub up against the shape of Hanzo’s cock through his briefs, hard and perfect. It’s a trim and sturdy thing, just like the man himself. Jesse lets his hands spend the time to appreciate it. He relishes the shuddering breaths, the flush on the other man’s face.  

Callouses cut through the thick hair on the back of McCree’s thigh, grasping and tugging down the hem of his boxers until his cock springs free. Hanzo’s eyes drink him in, braces himself between Jesse’s legs with a hand spread on the outside of his hip.

“How--” Hanzo licks his lips in search of the right phrase. “How do you want to…” he trails off anyway, brown eyes darting around before they settle on Jesse’s own. Awkward through their newfound intimacy.

Jesse’s heart swells. Damn if this man ain’t adorable. “Shit, I’ll take it however you wanna give it, darlin’. Long as it’s you I don’t give a damn.”

Hanzo says nothing, leans forward to kiss Jesse’s jaw under the stubble, that one spot his beard don’t grow. He’s learning that’s one of Hanzo’s favorite spots. His breath hitches when one hand wraps itself around his hot cock, and another cool finger taps on his rim.

“Do you have… supplies?” Hanzo breathes against his lips.

He flops an arm over to the nightstand on his right. “Top drawer,” he pants.

Past that, all Jesse knows is pleasure. Hanzo watches him come apart with a single-minded focus, works him open with a level of calm Jesse wishes he could retain. Thick fingers stretch and pull with precision, no movement wasted.

When he’s ready, Hanzo sinks into him, jaw slack and eyes unfocused, his elbows braced on either side of the cowboy’s head. By that point Jesse’s long gone. He can’t help the noises he makes as Hanzo fills him up just right, kisses and nips at his ear, whispers his name over and over again.

He locks his ankles around Hanzo’s waist and they set an easy pace. It’s so intimate, here in the low light, the slow roll of Hanzo’s hips against the cocoon of covers they’ve made for themselves. The heat of their bodies moving together keeps out the chill of the room. Jesse clenches his teeth as they build and build to the edge, overwhelmed with whatever odor Hanzo naturally exudes, the soft grunts and moans that vibrate from the man’s chest. He fights through the buzz of alcohol, the years of exhaustion settled in his bones.

They push over the precipice together.  

 _Finally,_ Jesse thinks. _Finally, finally._

Finally, he’s got what he wants.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo stirs quietly, body heavy and sluggish from the clutches of sleep. Bright sunlight casts across his face, warms his skin.

His eyes crack open.  

Beside him, the cowboy snores softly. Little chuffs of breath flutter the man’s brown cheeks. A thick arm lays trapped under Hanzo’s head, and Jesse stirs when Hanzo lifts himself off it, shuffles himself closer.

McCree rolls back, blinks at him bleary against the early morning light. His ruddy hair is mussed, wild and sticking up awkward on the side where he’d been sleeping. He mumbles a quiet _hey there, sweetheart_ , and wraps Hanzo close against his barrel chest.

Affection blooms fond and warm beneath Hanzo’s ribcage. He grins up at the man, Jesse’s metal hand moves some stray hair from his face and tucks it behind his ear. It moves down to cup his jaw, scratches into his beard a little. He can see small dark freckles flecked like sunspots across Jesse’s nose and cheeks.

“You got the prettiest eyes I ever seen, you know that?” McCree rumbles, voice thick with sleep.  

His mouth pinches as he tries to suppress the blush, the first genuine _smile_ he’s felt in years.

“I did not,” He replies.

He sits in the kitchen with his coffee, peruses the newspaper while Jesse putters around the kitchen and hums some ridiculous country tune. The cowboy fixes them up a classic american breakfast: eggs and hashbrowns and bacon, all of which Hanzo has had before. This time however, it seems different.

Here it feels so overwhelmingly like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prolly needs some more editing but /shrug smut is p hard to write actually 
> 
> also! one more chapter because this ended up way longer than intended. hanzo's got some stuff to take care of :)


	5. Epilogue

Jesse slams the hood to the cruiser, already reaching for a washcloth to wipe the oil from his fingers.

“Alright now sweetheart. Gotcherself one oil change, a new oil filter, and a fan belt,” he counts off on his fingers, “on account o’ yer old one bein a bit splintered to hell because o’ the weather.”

He finishes with the rag and tosses it aside. Leans on the hood of the cruiser facing where Hanzo propped himself against the driver’s side door.

“Anything else I can help you with, gorgeous?” He tips back his hat. Winks, and grins.  

Hanzo bites the inside of his cheek. He has to look away to hide the flush blooming on his cheeks, and they both pointedly ignore Gabe’s fake gagging from his office.

“I think that will be all,” he decides.

Jesse slides closer on the car. Hanzo can smell the sweat and oil from the morning’s effort, but it doesn’t bother him nearly so much as it did the first time. In fact, he finds himself achingly partial.

The mechanic bats his big brown eyes.

“You sure you can't stay just a few more days?” he says. Like a kicked puppy.

Hanzo shakes his head.

“No. I have already been gone too long.”

The hat’s brim nods up and down, a nervous tic he’s come to know as Jesse talking himself up. “Well,” he says, leaning in. “I’ll be missin ya.”

“You are not the only one, cowboy.”

They share a long, but chaste kiss against the car. Hanzo gets swept up in the calm touch of their lips, the way McCree’s beard catches on his own. How Jesse gently cups his face as if he’s something precious.

They part too soon.

Hanzo gets in the car, backs out of the garage. Gives a small wave as he turns the wheel back towards the road and the highway.

A lone cowboy waves in the dust of his rearview.

  


“Y’better call me!” Jesse shouts after the slick black cruiser as it pulls out of the lot.

He stands for a moment to listen to the engine’s waning roar. The dust cloud billows high in the clear sky of the late morning, obscures the car as it turns for the interstate’s ramp. Heading west, he knows. That drifter, finally heading home.

It takes more than a little effort to keep the crushing loneliness at bay.

When he strolls back into the lobby, he’s got a big dopey grin plastered across his face. That kiss was _something_ anyway, not even counting the night before, and if _that_ can’t buoy him above the waves then, well. Not much else can.

Reyes looks up from his his crossword.

“You’re hopeless, _pendejo_ ,” he grumbles.

Jesse leans on the counter and folds his arms. He can’t help the curl of a smile at the memory of breakfast with his elusive dragon, or their topic of conversation.

“So boss,” He starts, fingers tapping. “You know that vacation you been wantin me to take…”

One grizzled hand drags down the old man’s face in shame.

“ _Dios mio_. When.”

McCree shrugs. “Maybe a month or two. He's got some uh.” Metal fingers scratch themselves into his beard. “Family stuff, to sort out, I guess.”

 _Jefe_ gives him a flat look. “Family stuff.”

“Mhm.”

A long, tortured sigh breaks from Reyes’ throat. Jesse opens his mouth to explain further, but _Jefe_ waves him off.

“Just… tell me when you buy the tickets, _¿está bien?_ ”

“ _Si, si_ ,” Jesse puffs out, surprised it was so easy. “ _De acuerdo, jefe_.”

A calm settles in the shop. There’s no customers yet, and all his late hours the last few weeks has left him without appointments. He’s sure there’ll be some later; there always is -- but for now, they’ve got some time to themselves.

Jesse snags a a parts catalog he’d left the day before, drags it over. He leafs through the pages for a new part for his bike, or maybe something nice to send to Hanzo, if it catches his eye. Each page turn brings his elbow to clack against the metal countertop. It’s a small, periodic break in the stillness, save for _Jefe’s_ pen scratching against the newsprint, or maybe some faint mumbling when the old man can’t find a word that fits the box.

It’s nice, Jesse thinks. Quiet. Peaceful, even.

Until a loud, sharp buzz startles McCree right out of his own damn skin.

Between them on the counter _Jefe’s_ phone rings. It vibrates around in a circle, calling attention to itself. Jesse would smack it, but _Jefe_ is right there, and he can’t read the name anyway -- the font is small, and he’s too far away.  

Gabe snatches up his phone.

One glance at the number has him sitting ramrod straight in the backless barstool they’ve got for a clerk’s chair.

“I've got to take this,” he says, and jumps up and towards the door so fast that Jesse knows exactly who it is.

“ _Hola, papi_ \--” he hears, before the door to the shop shuts.

McCree slides into _Jefe’s_ chair, picks up the pen. Chews on the end, taps on the counter as the old man paces and gestures outside the front windows.

Maybe he can finish Gabe’s crossword before he comes back inside.

 

* * *

 

The cruiser rumbles slow and quiet into the garage, prowls onto the concrete slab like a panther finding a comfortable place to rest. Hanzo lets it idle for a moment before he shuts off the engine.

From the passenger side window, Genji’s black bike glitters at him where it’s parked near the wall.

He slides out of the car, tired of the long hours driving, tired of the trip itself. So very tired of running from what he knows he must face.

Hanzo’s boots find their place near the threshold, set gently on the rack before he trudges up the narrow stairs. Though they are ancient and wooden, he knows exactly where to step to make the least noise, in the hopes that his brother does not wake.

His bag drops off his shoulder in the hall when he reaches the kitchen.

He sighs.

He is home.

The hardwood creaks underneath one sliding footstep. Hanzo’s head snaps up.

Genji stands in the hall still as death. Dressed in pajamas, wild hair mussed. And holding his katana at the ready.

“ _Anija_ ,” he speaks, and the steel trembles. His voice choked with emotion.

It strikes Hanzo at the heart.

“Genji,” He breathes. Hesitates: “I--”

He has to say it, he has to say it _now_. Or he will never say anything at all.

“ _I am sorry for what I said_ ,” he starts, placating with their mother tongue. “ _For everything I said, I--_ ” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. It is too tight, the words he must speak need clarity.

“ _I should have listened to you_ ; _heeded your concerns. I needed space but you were…_ ” He grits his teeth.

“You were right,” Hanzo admits. “I should never have left.”

The katana clatters to the floor.

Genji rushes forward and wraps him tightly around the ribs. His arms are like a vice, crushing his older brother’s lungs in some effort to be closer, to convince himself that Hanzo is real and Hanzo is there.

“I thought you’d never come back,” he sobs.

Hanzo sighs again, smiles fondly. Genji’s face is pressed into his collar, he’s always been just a bit taller, just a bit lankier. He wraps his arm around Genji’s shoulders, patting them gently.

“I am so sorry, Genji,” he confesses, heartfelt. “I am so, so sorry.”

Genji sniffs audibly around his collar. He thinks Genji’s still crying until his brother backs off of him, grasping his shoulders but sniffing around his general person.

“What?” Hanzo asks. Genji wipes his face with his forearm but sniffs again, more rapidly.

Hanzo throws his hands up, casting off Genji’s grasp. His emotions fold back into himself, already irritated by Genji’s games.

“ _What, what is it?_ ”

“Did you start smoking again?”

“What?” He lifts the collar of his jacket, sniffs it himself. “No! _Baka._ You know I quit before we left Japan, I would never--”

He sniffs again, to make sure. Instead of the acrid cling of cigarette smoke, however, it’s a heady, wholesome scent of tobacco, peppered with cloves and a hint of pine. Above it all lay the faint tang of motor oil from their tryst against the door of the car.

The thought rolls into him before he can stop himself.

“ _Jesse_ ,” he hisses.

“Jesse?” Genji perks up, interest piqued. Like Hanzo hasn’t been away for near half a year. Like none of it ever happened. “Who is Jesse?”

A frustrated sigh. “He is--” Hanzo did not want to have to explain this now. Preferably _never_. He settles for: “He is a friend I met while I was away.”

Genji’s cheshire smile only drives Hanzo up the wall. He has half a mind to walk right out again, start up the car, and never come back. “Ohhhh,” Genji says, exaggerating the syllable, tapping his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “A friend _?_ ”

“Just! a friend.” He clarifies.

“Soo… _did you fuck him--_ ”

Hanzo waves him off, one hand to his temples. “ _Please_. I am very tired. Let us go to bed.” He gestures towards their rooms. ”We can speak in the morning.”

Pushing past his younger brother and towards the sweet relief of his own room, he notices something.

Genji is unreasonably quiet.

“Is he the same one that calls you… ‘ _honey-pie_ ’?” He asks. And busts out laughing.

Hanzo whirls, furious. When he sees what Genji’s holding, his face drops into abject horror.

“Oh, _no_.”

Genji is smiling in glee, clutching his phone, _that_ _filthy pickpocket_. On the lock screen are probably several texts, most likely from Jesse, asking if he’s made it home alright. And apparently, one that calls him _honey-pie_.

Damn that cowboy.  

“Give that here,” Hanzo commands dangerously.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, _anija_ ,” He waves the phone with glee and darts off towards his room, deftly picking up the katana on the way.

Hanzo follows closely, but is not fast enough. More sleight of form, Genji’s always been the more agile of the two of them, and it’s played to his advantage more than once throughout their childhood. This time is no exception.

His fist meets wood as Genji’s door slams shut in his face.

“GENJI!” He bellows.

Mad giggling cascades through the door and the phone slides through the gap underneath. Hanzo snatches it up as if Genji would take it back again, but his petulant brother’s door remains closed. He sneers at the wood paneling anyway before glancing at the screen.

It’s left open on the contacts page -- Jesse’s, specifically. Hanzo suppresses a deep and exasperated groan. If Genji has the cowboy’s number, it can only spell a _nightmare_ for them both.

He attempts to glare a hole through the wood before stalking back to his own bedroom.

Genji calls after him, still laughing.

“ _Glad you’re home, brother!_ ”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short. I do have ideas for a continuation if anyone is interested, set in San Francisco! No idea how long that'll take me to get out though, haha. 
> 
> A playlist for this fic, and pretty much what I wrote to on repeat: 
> 
> Mirrored in Reverse - White Denim  
> Satan Is My Motor - Cake  
> You Go Down Smooth - Lake Street Drive  
> Bread and Butter - Hugo  
> Dancing on Our Graves - The Cave Singers  
> At Night In Dreams - White Denim  
> Gallup, NM - The Shouting Matches  
> Gotta Get Away - The Black Keys  
> Necessary Evil - Unknown Mortal Orchestra  
> Shake Em Loose Tonight - Rumspringa  
> Powa - TuneYards  
> Love You Madly - Cake  
> Pretty Green - White Denim
> 
> Thanks for reading, it's been wild :) catch me on tumblr @gnarlybit!


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